


The Red Notebook

by DaisyFairy



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angry John, Apologetic John, Coming Out, First Date, Flowers, Forgiveness, Gay John, M/M, Mention Male/Female sex, Past Child Abuse, Protective Greg, Violence, accidental love confession, apology, past homophobia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-21
Updated: 2017-07-21
Packaged: 2018-12-05 03:05:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,834
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11568999
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DaisyFairy/pseuds/DaisyFairy
Summary: John finds a notebook lying around the flat, when he reads what Sherlock has written it will change their relationship forever.





	The Red Notebook

**Author's Note:**

> Warning there is violence in this between John and Sherlock. It is brief and non-graphic but if you don't want to see that you might want to skip this one.

John and Sherlock arrive home exhausted but too keyed up with adrenaline to consider sleeping. It is only 10am, but after being called out to a case two days before they have barely stopped. Greg's call had been so desperate that they had dropped everything and left.

 

Sherlock has gone straight into the bathroom to shower. John looks into the kitchen with dismay at the congealed mess of half cooked bacon on the grill, looking decidedly green around the edges and adding a hint of putrescence to the air, and bread poking out of the toaster festooned with various moulds that Sherlock no doubt will be fascinated by.

 

He decides to deal with it later and slumps into his armchair. A small red hardback notebook on the coffee table catches his attention. There is always paperwork all over the flat, but he can't recall ever seeing this before. He huffs as he leans forward to reach it, then sighs when he leans back into the chair. John opens the book and frowns, he flips through and finds all of the pages to be almost identical. Over and over, written in Sherlock's spidery handwriting. “I love John.” Or “I love you.” Repeated on every line up to about three quarters of the way through, after which the pages are blank. His hands shake and the notebook slips through his fingers and tumbles onto the floor. John closes his eyes and tries to calm himself, but his rational mind is struggling to maintain control.

 

Sherlock emerges from his bedroom, hair damp and wearing his pyjamas with the navy dressing gown. His eyes fix on the notebook on the floor and he gasps, “You weren’t meant to see that.”

 

John snaps his head up, “What the hell is that?” he points accusingly at the pad.

 

“You read it?”

 

“Yes. What the hell do you think you are doing?” John stands and stalks towards Sherlock, his shoulders and jaw set so hard it is almost painful.

 

“Nothing, it doesn’t matter.”

 

John’s fist pulls back and punches Sherlock on the cheek, then before he can fall John has him pushed up against the wall with an arm across his throat.

 

“What the fuck? I'm not gay Sherlock, I'm not. So what are you doing writing shit like that for?”

 

John punctuates this with a fist slamming into the wall millimetres from Sherlock's head. Sherlock flinches and whimpers.

 

Seeing the fear in Sherlock’s eyes drags John back, he backs away from Sherlock with a gasp, then feels a tear trickle down his face when Sherlock drops to the floor in a heap.

 

“I have to go!” He grabs his coat and practically runs out of the door.

 

\--~~--

 

John returns several hours and several beers later. He sees Sherlock in his chair and does an about turn to the kitchen, he can’t deal with that now. The grill, and toaster have been cleaned, the washing up done and, oh god, the floor has even been mopped. He closes his eyes when he sees packs of paracetamol and ibuprofen on the counter next to an empty glass. He swallows hard and turns back to call into the living room, “You didn’t have to..”

 

He is cut off by Sherlock appearing in the doorway and his breath catches when he sees his angry red skin where the beginning of a bruise is blooming across Sherlock’s cheek and swollen eye socket, and the paler pink marks on his throat, standing out starkly against his pale skin. Sherlock fills a glass with water as John gapes at him, and then thrusts it into John’s hands.

 

“Sherlock, I...”

 

“Nothing broken, it’s fine. Go to bed.” Sherlock orders with rasp and shuffles back into the lounge.

 

John watches his retreating back and slumps in defeat.

 

 

The following morning is horribly awkward. John carries out his daily routine of shower and breakfast as quietly as possible, feeling undeserving to just exist in the same space as Sherlock. As soon as he has eaten he plans on hiding away in his room for the rest of the day. Sherlock is acting as if everything is normal, checking his blog for cases and fiddling with his case files. Every time John catches sight of him and the bruises which are now beginning to turn blue and purple he feels empty inside, he wants to apologise, but that would mean talking about the other thing, so the words just won’t come.

 

John is washing the breakfast things when Greg steps into the flat with a cheery “Hello lads, great result yesterday.”

 

John freezes and holds his breath, waiting, waiting, then there it is.

 

“Christ! What happened to you?”

 

“A fight related to a private case. It looks worse than it is.” Sherlock lies, sounding almost dismissive of the whole incident.

 

“Well, who was it? We can take them in for assault.”

 

“No need, once I have finished gathering evidence this will be insignificant next to Mr Wainwright’s other charges.” The lies still flow smoothly from Sherlock’s lips, but John feels like he could drown in them.

 

John has drifted over to the door to see the scene, Greg is kneeling on the floor in front of Sherlock’s chair peering with concern at the bruises across his face.

 

“It was me.” He mumbles, and when Greg doesn’t hear him repeats louder, “It was me. I hit him.”

 

Greg twists to stare at him and his eyes widen in shock.

 

“You should arrest me Greg. I hit him, I...It was me.”

 

“What the hell, why did you do that?”

 

Before John has a chance to answer Sherlock is out of his chair and places himself firmly between Greg and John.

 

“I deserved it, I am a very infuriating man, how many times have you wanted to punch me Greg? It is hardly surprising that someone finally did.”

 

Greg shakes his head in disbelief. “I didn’t actually do it though. John, what were you thinking?”

 

“Just arrest me, I...I’ll come and make a statement.” John whispers, feeling thoroughly ashamed of himself.

 

Sherlock pipes in, “It was my own fault, put a war veteran who suffered a traumatic discharge from the army under enough stress and eventually his training will kick in.”

 

John hurries to contradict him. “It wasn’t like that. I deserve to be arrested.”

 

Sherlock scoffs, “Don’t be ridiculous. There is no case to answer. With no witness or victim statement and no evidence there can’t be a prosecution.”

 

“The evidence is all over your face...” Greg begins, but Sherlock interrupts.

 

“I am not going anywhere near a police station, camera or evidence bag until this has healed. I am not making a statement. You can’t prosecute. Just leave. Now please.”

 

“I..” Greg begins, but Sherlock yells at the top of his voice right into his face,

 

“Leave Now!!”

 

Greg takes a step back in shock, then reluctantly leaves the flat, casting concerned glances over his shoulder as he goes.

 

\--~~--

 

The next few days are awkward, John spends most of his time in his room, only venturing out when necessary. Several times he tries to say he should leave, go and find somewhere else to stay, but every time Sherlock just cuts him off, telling him not to be so stupid. It is only when the swelling and bruising has faded that John can bear to be in the room with Sherlock for any period of time. Gradually things return almost to normal and after a few weeks John can nearly fool himself into forgetting the whole incident.

 

Eventually Greg calls about a case, the actual murder happened a week ago and John gets the feeling Greg has left it until he has no other option before calling them in on this one. They go to the Yard and into Greg’s office. While Sherlock and Greg discuss the case John shuffles awkwardly in the corner of the room and stares out of the window, not wanting to see the accusation that will be in Greg’s eyes. Soon though John is called on to provide a medical opinion and gets caught up in the details.

 

A few hours later the three men return to the office, happy to have solved another mystery and apprehended a murderer before he could claim another victim. Greg smiles at them both then claps John on the shoulder and catches his eye.

 

“It won’t happen again.” John says solemnly without prompting, then leaves, striding down to the street and into a taxi without waiting for Sherlock.

 

\--~~--

 

Sherlock doesn’t return home for several hours. John sits reading, trying to distract himself when he lifts his head as the door opens. Sherlock tumbles in and hangs his coat up. He smiles widely when he sees John watching him.

 

“Went for a drink. Graham, Gavin, George, GREG!...Greg took me out.” he drops into his armchair. “We solved it. You and me. Just like before... Just like before.” He tips his head back and seconds later begins to snore softly.

 

John swallows a lump in his throat and feels a prickle of tears, and he isn’t even sure why. If things are like before that’s good, isn’t it? For the first time he really allows himself to think about that night, the night of the red notebook, and acknowledges that ‘like before’ isn’t what he wants at all.  He fetches a blanket to cover Sherlock and goes to bed.

 

\--~~--

 

In the morning Sherlock is already at his microscope when John comes down. He glances up at John and murmurs “Thanks, for the blanket.”

 

“Yeah, that’s ok.” John replies, even though his throat feels far too tight for words. “We need to talk.”

 

“No we don’t.” Sherlock looks back at his microscope.

 

“Yes we do. I’m so..”

 

“I know. Stop it.”

 

“I shouldn’t have...”

 

“I know.”

 

“When I saw what you.....”

 

“I know this John. Just stop. There is no need to _talk_. Your position on the matter is painfully clear.”

 

John slaps his hand on the table. “Maybe you don’t need to hear it, but I need to say it. And just maybe you don’t know everything.”

 

Sherlock looks up, his mouth forming a surprised ‘O’ shape.

 

John sits across the kitchen table from him, and Sherlock grudgingly moves the microscope to the side so that they have clear space between them.

 

“Just. Don’t interrupt. Please.”

 

Sherlock nods in assent.

 

“I’m so sorry Sherlock, for what I did to you. So...just ...Sorry. I hate myself for hurting you like that.”

 

Sherlock waits a beat to make sure to not interrupt then replies, “I know you are John. You have been horribly accommodating these last few weeks. I had to almost set the flat on fire before you complained about my experiments, and had to play my very worst screeching violin right outside your bedroom door at 3am before you shouted at me to stop.”

 

“You did that on purpose?”

 

Sherlock shrugs, “I wanted normal, that is normal, for us.”

 

John’s lips tug into a sad smile. “When I saw what you had written, I just lost it. You..why did you write that?”

 

Sherlock sighs, “You were never meant to see that. I have...feelings, feelings that I know are unwelcome, so, when it became apparent that those feelings wanted to spill out, I decided it was best that I wrote them down, instead of saying it out loud.”

 

“There were pages and pages worth though, all, all about me?”

 

Sherlock huffs “Yes about you, I don’t see any other Johns around here who I might be harbouring secret feelings for, do you?”

 

“No. Sorry. When I saw it, I, God, I. Oh I can’t do this.” John stands up and storms out of the room, leaving Sherlock at the table. Just as Sherlock is about to turn back to his microscope John dashes back in.

 

“You know what? I need to. I need to do this. I was scared. When I saw that. I was scared. Do you know why?”

 

Without waiting for a reply John continues, ranting and barely drawing breath. “I was scared because maybe I feel the same. Maybe I love you too. And it shouldn’t feel wrong, but it does. It feels so wrong for me to love you because you’re a man, and when I was thirteen I told my Dad I am gay and he locked me in my room for three days, apart from a few trips to the loo. He didn’t give me any food, just a few glasses of water. He wouldn’t let me out until the school called to ask where I was.

 

Then, when I had my first real crush and he caught me snogging Colin Thompson in the alley behind our house he beat me black and blue, I’m pretty sure I had concussion, I was throwing up for days, but he wouldn’t take me to the doctor. Everyday he would tell me it was wrong, bad, evil. That _I_ was bad. If I tried to disagree he would slap or punch me, he was a big man, I didn’t stand a chance. He would go on and on about it, until in the end I agreed to ask a girl out for a date. I dated girls, he was so eager, always ready to give me money for dates.

 

When I was sixteen he gave me a pack of condoms before Kirsty Morgan arrived at the house and told me to ‘have fun’. I didn’t, not that night. But eventually I gave in.

 

You know what? It’s easy to get a reputation for being good in bed with the girls when you aren’t really interested. It’s easy to just give a girl a good time when you aren’t really that eager to just ‘stick it in and finish’. At the start I tried just getting the girl off, but they thought it was odd that I didn’t want to do anything, so then I knew I was going to have to do it. It wasn’t easy getting it up, the girl I was with sure as hell wasn’t doing it for me, and I never, ever, let myself think about men, but I managed to get myself a fairly good response going to my own left hand, so as long as I started myself off like that I could do it. And did do it. As often as I could, to prove it, I wasn’t bad. I wasn’t like that, not really. Look at all these girls. How could John Watson possibly be gay when he’s slept with all these girls? I joined the army to prove it, I am a _real_ man. Look at me, big and strong and I even killed people. And slept around a bit more of course.

 

And then you, you with your cheek bones and coat and bloody addictive lifestyle and stupid flat and stupider curly hair and eyes and, oh god, fingers. Then you came along and, it was still ok. I went on dates, I was still a man, you would interrupt them and I’d pretend to be upset about not getting to sleep with them. It was fine. Until I saw that notebook. And.. and....” John slumps into the kitchen chair, his elbows on the table and his head in his hands. Big tear drops fall to the tabletop.

 

When John lifts his head Sherlock is blinking at him with his mouth slightly open.

 

 

“Not what you were expecting?”

 

 

“I. Some of it. The apology. Maybe hints of you not being totally straight, what your father had done, but I didn’t expect you to tell me. Not the, the, maybe.... feelings? For me??”

 

 

“Yeah.” John rubs the back of his neck and studies the table. “Maybe.”

 

 

“Your father, was it a painful death?”

 

 

John sighs around a chuckle, “Not really, heart attack in Marks and Spencer, all over in a few minutes.”

 

 

“Shame, I’d like to meet him.” Sherlock says in a pleasant tone, but the look in his eyes is pure malice and John can’t help but laugh. 

 

“What about you then? If you do that kind of thing, feelings and all that, what are you doing pining over a beaten up old soldier? You could be out finding a new bloke every night, or one special man.”

 

 

Sherlock waves a hand airily, “Oh, according to the therapists at rehab I have crippling self esteem issues stemming from childhood bullying. Add to that finding the majority of humanity mind numbingly boring, a dangerous lifestyle that would put most men off, and having been totally in love with you for the last three years. It's fine, really. I never expected anything in return. It still is fine, if you don't...we'll just carry on like before.”

 

 

“Maybe I don’t want to.”

 

 

Sherlock tilts his head curiously.

 

 

“Maybe I want to really, truly be in love, and actually have sex with someone that turns me on for once in my life.”

 

 

“Hmm. Say it then.”

 

 

“What?”

 

 

“If you are ready to face this, say it. You are gay.”

 

 

“I've never heard you say it either.”

 

 

“But I don’t deny it. I'll say it now. I, Sherlock Holmes, am a gay man. I like men, exclusively, I. Am. Gay. Your turn.”

 

 

John shakes his head. "I've only ever said it aloud once, to my Dad, I don’t , I can't.”

 

 

“Twice. You said it earlier.”

 

 

“I...I did? I said those words?”

 

 

Sherlock smiles, “Yes. Say it again.”

 

 

John takes a deep breath, his lip trembles.

 

 

“Nothing bad is going to happen John.”

 

 

“I know. Ok. Here goes. I am...I am....”

 

 

Sherlock touches his forearm gently across the table.

 

 

“I am gay.” Tears overflow and stream down his cheeks, “I am gay, I always have been.”

 

 

Sherlock smiles even though his own face is damp with tears. “Well done John. That's brilliant.”

 

 

“What do we do now?”

 

 

Sherlock tries to look serious, but can’t stop his eyes from crinkling slightly as he says “Right , yes. Well I'll have to teach you the secret handshake, and I'll help with the paperwork. Then we need to go and get you all new underwear and a big rainbow flag duvet cover.”

 

 

John's tears stop and turn to laughter. “You cock! But really, what do we do?”

 

 

“Um. Breaking up with your girlfriend seems a good start.”

 

 

“Ah, yeah. I haven't answered any of her messages for the last two weeks, I think she's probably already got the idea. Maybe I'll just text her.”

 

 

Sherlock raises his eyebrows “Right. Oookaay. Well then. I'm in the middle of an experiment, and you need breakfast. So let's start there.”

 

 

“What about...us. Don't you want to...?”

 

 

“I really don’t think that’s a good idea. Just, let it settle a bit. I'm not the only gay man in the world...I’m sure now you are open to looking you could find someone more suitable to fall for.”

 

 

“But you..you said. Don't you want..?”

 

 

“I want you to be happy. I'm not the one to make that happen. Just forget what I said.”

 

 

Sherlock pulls his microscope back and resumes looking through it, occasionally taking notes. John stares at him for a full thirty seconds before Sherlock says without looking up, “Despite my best efforts I’ve found being gay doesn’t stop you from needing to eat. I believe you were going to make toast. I'll have two slices please.”

 

 

John shakes his head to clear it and then makes the food. He leaves Sherlock's next to him at the table but carries his through to the lounge. He eats quickly then calls through to the kitchen, “I'm going for a walk. I'll just get dressed and go.”

 

 

A mumbled “Hmmm.” comes from the kitchen in reply and John just smiles.

 

\--~~--

 

 

An hour later John struggles to open the door to 221B with his hands full. He manages the door catch and enters preceded by the huge bouquet of flowers in his arms. Sherlock is standing by the window with his violin in hand staring open mouthed.

 

 

“What are you doing, I thought you were going for a walk.”

 

 

“I did. I walked, and I thought, and I realised that we’ve waited long enough for me to accept that what I feel for you is real.”

 

 

Sherlock puts his violin down carefully and takes a step closer.

 

 

“This isn’t going to be easy, I still, I’m still struggling with admitting this, with just letting myself feel, and I’m trying to tell myself that this is allowed. I think, for now, just us, I don’t think, I’m not ready to tell anyone else, but, Sherlock, I’d really like it if you would take these and go on a date with me. Well, maybe a stay in the flat date for now. Not forever, I promise, just, for now, yeah?”

 

 

“Really? With me?”

 

“Yes, you.” John stands nervously and shifts the flowers from one side to the other.

 

Sherlock takes the bouquet and places it carefully on a table, then steps back and very carefully, slowly, gently, kisses John on the cheek.

 

“Thank you. No one has ever brought me flowers before. Well, not for romantic purposes. Clients do it all the time but...well, yes. A date?”

 

“I thought I’d cook and we could watch a film? Or a documentary if you prefer, anything, you chose. Just, I want to spend some time with you, try this out. I..I can’t promise anything, and, could we take it slow please, I don’t think I’m ready for....” John leaves the sentence hanging and looks at Sherlock in anticipation.

 

“Slow is fine. I, well, I’ve dabbled, but I’m not exactly the most experienced when it comes to that sort of thing so, that’s fine. What are you cooking?”

 

“What do you want? Anything you want, I, I owe you, I hurt you, I, I’m sorry.”

 

“No. We aren’t doing that. It’s over. You apologised, I accept your apology, now we are forgetting about it. You don’t owe me anything, but if you wanted to make shepherds pie that would be very nice.”

 

“Ok, if you say so. Shepherds pie. I think we’ve got some mince and onions in the fridge.”

 

John goes into the kitchen and opens the fridge to be confronted by every shelf being full of uncovered trays of intestines, kidneys and eyeballs. He slams it shut and draws breath to shout, but then hears the front door slam and Sherlock’s footsteps thundering down the stairs. His phone beeps and he pulls it from his pocket. There is a text from Sherlock.

 

**Chinese tonight. My treat. Back soon.**

John chuckles, then laughs, then pulls a bit of paper off of a nearby notepad. Maybe he isn’t ready to say it yet, but the feelings are there. In bold letters he writes a single line and leaves it in the middle of the kitchen table.

 

**I Love Sherlock.**

**Author's Note:**

> I hate doing titles, tagging and writting summaries. Basically I want to write things and just throw them at all of you to read, that would work, right??


End file.
